As he tossed a change of clothes into an overnight bag and climbed into his car—about to embark on a six-hour drive with no sleep and an empty stomach, planning to approach a complete stranger with a bizarre and baseless theory—it occurred to Peter—again—that perhaps he was losing his mind. Perhaps the best thing for him now would be a nice long stay in a padded cell at Algoma Psychiatric.
But by the time he got the car up to cruising speed, rolling east on Highway 17, what he was doing seemed not only sane, but inevitable. As crazy as it might appear to an outside observer, Peter was convinced his son was guiding him, and that he was on the right path. He wasn’t a stupid man. He had a degree in medicine, had at one time even considered a career in psychiatry. And on a strictly clinical level, he understood that everything he’d experienced up to this point could fairly be ascribed to the complex fallout of unresolved grief and the accompanying phenomena of sleep deprivation and flagging nutrition. He’d pondered these truths countless times and, as a clinician standing on the other side of the fence, would have used these very arguments weeks ago to explain this all away. But living it, feeling the truth of it in his every fiber, he had no choice but to act. Exactly what he hoped to achieve by sharing his beliefs with Margaret Dolan had not yet fully crystallized in his mind. Maybe when she saw the boys’ pictures, their unmistakable likeness, she’d recall something that had escaped her before, some apparently inconsequential detail which, in this new light, unearthed a link, however fragile. And maybe she’d just send him packing, as Roger had. He didn’t know. Right now he was simply following his heart.
He got a rock station blaring and settled back in his seat, running through different scenarios in his mind, how he’d approach Margaret Dolan, never doubting for an instant that he could find her, never fearing that she might run him off her farm, have him arrested for trespassing or worse.
* * *
After stopping for gas and a late breakfast in Mattawa, two hours east of Sudbury, Peter made the balance of the trip nonstop, pulling into Arnprior at two forty-five that afternoon. Using a map of the area he’d purchased in Mattawa, he followed Route 22 past the turnoff to the village of Fitzroy, checking every side road until he realized he’d gone too far. None of the roads up here had signs, and when he failed on his second pass to find Muldoon’s Crossroad, he pulled into a homestead that edged on the highway, a two-story farmhouse in a cluster of shade-trees, an assortment of sagging outbuildings arrayed haphazardly around it.
There was an old guy in a straw hat and faded coveralls sitting on the porch in a weathered Adirondack chair, and as Peter climbed out of the car the man nodded and said, “Help ya?” through a toothless grin.
Peter said, “Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind. I’m looking for Muldoon’s Crossroad.”
“Figured,” the old man said, tugging that brimmed straw hat a little further down over his eyes. “Seen you go by the first time. Reporter?”
“No.”
“Writer, then?”
Something told Peter to say, “Yes.”
“Figured that, too. The Dolan boy, right?”
Peter turned the engine off and shut the car door. “That’s right. How did you know?”
The man grinned again. “Hers’s the only place up there. And you ain’t the first come up here tryna get her story. Word to the wise, though, chum. You can go on up there and try, but I can tell you right now, you’ll be lucky if Maggie gives you the time of day. She thinks people like you’re bloodsuckers, aiming to get rich off the misery of others.”
Peter thought, Shit, why did I lie? and the old man patted the arm of the chair next to his. “But if you got a minute,” he said, the grin cagey now, “I can tell you most of it. It was my place she run to the night she took the pigsticker to ol’ Lionel.”
Peter made his way up the steps, trying to clear the fog of exhaustion from his head. As he passed the screen door, he heard a clatter of pans in there and caught a whiff of fresh bread.
The old man came partway out of his chair, stuck his hand out and said, “Wife’s baking. Name’s Albert Muldoon, pleased to meetcha. Crossroad’s named after my daddy. He’s an Albert, too.”
Peter felt his hand swallowed in Albert’s iron grip, the man’s hand all knuckles and grizzled callous. “Peter Croft,” he said, trying not to wince. He liked the old guy right away, those clear blue eyes shaded by the brimmed hat he kept adjusting like a cowboy, that gummy grin and laid back way of talking.
Peter slumped into the empty chair and sighed.
“Long drive?” Albert said.
“Six hours.”
“Can’t hack a run like that anymore,” Albert said. “Hips are gone.” He picked up a beer can from the porch beside his chair and showed it to Peter. “Get you one of these?”
“Thanks, no. I’ve still got some driving to do.”
“Some of Myrtle’s fresh lemonade, then? Myrt’s the wife. If I’m swift, I bet I can snag us a couple tea biscuits, too, fresh outa the oven.”
Peter didn’t want anything, but the old man was already out of his chair, his hunched gait arthritic but spry, hinting at the young man he’d once been. At a glance, Peter put him at around eighty years old.
“Besides,” Albert said, opening the screen door, “if we’re gonna have us a chinwag out here, I’ll be needing my teeth.” He gave Peter that gummy grin again and Peter had to grin back. “You sit tight,” Albert said. “I’ll be right back.”
The screen door clapped shut and Peter put his head back, the breeze cooling his light sweat, its chatter in the trees a gentle soporific. With his eyes closed he listened to the crickets’ chirr and now the rising buzz of a cicada, the sound impossibly loud in this peaceful rural setting. In an instant he was fast asleep.
Though it couldn’t have been long, when the screen door clapped again and Peter opened his eyes, he felt better, dreamy and relaxed.
“Country air,” Albert said, the grin filled with perfect white teeth now. “Getcha every time.” He handed Peter a tall glass of lemonade. Peter thanked him and Albert said, “Myrt’ll be along in a minute with the biscuits.”
Before Peter could comment, a round, blue-haired woman in a plain cotton dress came through the door with a plate of steaming tea biscuits. Albert took the plate, saying, “Pete, this is Myrt,” huffing when Myrtle started chatting with Peter, shaking his head as she waddled back inside. “You don’t want to start that woman up,” he said and took a biscuit, resting the plate on the wide arm of Peter’s chair. Peter took one, too, butter already slathered through its spongy middle. He took a bite and said, “Delicious.” Albert gave him a wink.
“Peter Croft,” Albert said now, taking a slurp of his beer. “Not ringing any bells. You write anything I might’ve read?”
“If I decide to do this one,” Peter said, feeling bad about the lie, “it’ll be my first.”
“I only read Westerns, anyway,” Albert said, fiddling with his hat again. “Louis L’Amour, Zane Grey, that ilk.” He angled himself in his chair, turning to face Peter head on. “So what do you wanna know?”
Peter said, “All of it.”
Albert eyed him with a hint of suspicion. “You don’t have a tape recorder or nothing?”
Peter raised a finger to his temple. “Never forget a word.”
“If you say so,” the old man said. Then he fixed Peter with his keen, knowing eyes. “The way I see it, things started turning to shit for Maggie Dolan the day Lionel threw his back out and decided to go on the public tit. It wasn’t long before that waste of skin was drinking every dime and Maggie had to look for work in Arnprior. This’d be twelve, thirteen years back now, Maggie still a presentable-looking woman in them days, before she packed on all the weight.”
Peter remembered the tall, angular woman he’d seen in the video and couldn’t imagine her overweight.
“She lucked into an office job with a lawyer down there’d just hung out his shingle,” Albert said. “Maggie didn’t know the first th
ing about typing or computers, but she’s a fast learner and a hard worker...and the way I heard it, lawyer-boy’s interest in the woman wasn’t entirely professional, if you catch my drift.”
Peter took a bite of his biscuit and did his best to suppress a smile, realizing he was in the presence of the county gossip. He nodded, urging the old boy on.
“In them days, word was little Clayton came compliments of the legal eagle, too. If you’d ever set eyes on Lionel, you’d know what I’m talking about. Must’ve been an Injun in the woodpile somewhere in that fella’s clan. Aaron, Maggie’s other boy, he come out the same way—black hair, dark eyes and skin. That boy’s not all there, though. Never has been. Maggie had him in school in the village the first year or so, then took to homeschooling him, evenings mostly, as much as the boy could learn. By the time Clayton come along, ol’ Lionel was so addled with the booze he didn’t seem to notice the blond hair and blue eyes. Or maybe he just didn’t care. The lawyer fired Maggie the day he found out she was pregnant, and for my money that’s all the proof a body needs. But that’s neither here nor there. It all came out after the boy disappeared, the affair, but by that time the lawyer’d married and had two kids of his own. Cops cleared him of any involvement on day one.”
Albert took a bite of his biscuit and washed it down with a slug of beer. Intruding on the quiet, an old Pony tractor came over the hill on Route 22, hauling a load of manure. As it hummed past the house, Albert waved to the young man sitting shirtless at the wheel, and the young man waved back. “Garnet Teevens’ boy,” Albert said and popped the last of his snack into his mouth. He looked at Peter and said, “Sure you don’t want to jot a few notes?” spitting little missiles of tea biscuit onto the porch as he spoke.
“I’m good,” Peter said, touching his temple again.
Albert grinned and gave his head a shake. Then his expression grew dark. “Hell of a thing, that kidnapping. The last thing folks around here ever expected. Son of a bitch come out of nowhere, brained young Aaron with a rock, opened a gash like that in his scalp—” he showed Peter a space between his fingers about two inches long “—then run off God knows where with wee Clayton. Cops tried to get a description out of Aaron, but the boy never even seen the man, it happened that quick. When Aaron come to, he run in’n told Lionel what happened—Maggie was at work by this time, waitressing for that Chinese outfit in town—but Lionel was already half in the bag and didn’t believe him. Told him to go wash his face he was bleedin’. Maggie told me the whole story the night she took the knife to Lionel, her sitting right where you are now, waiting for the cops to come arrest her. What a scene that was. Ambulance, cop cars tearing up the yard. Myrt had Aaron in the kitchen back there, trying to calm the boy down. Maggie’d chased him through the fields with the knife, meaning to gut him too, I expect. Good thing the boy had the sense to head over here. Was all I could do to wrassle that woman down’n get the knife off her, she was that far gone. Snapped like a piece of kindling, that drunken fool setting her off. Clayton’d been gone a few months by this time and everyone’d pretty much given up hope of ever finding him. Everyone but Maggie. Lionel was stoked to the gills that night’n started in on her, telling her it was time she quit her whining, the kid was gone and that was the end of it. Told her if she wanted another he’d plant one in her right there on the kitchen table. That’s when she snapped, and who could blame the woman?”
Peter just shook his head.
“There was a trial, but by that time Maggie’d pretty much closed up shop.” Mimicking Peter, Albert pointed to his temple and grinned without humor. “That little boy meant the world to her. Had all her hopes wrapped up in him. Carted him around with her everywhere, even brought him to work a couple times ’til the Chinaman put a stop to it. Maggie’s got a sister, Marie, runs the corner store in Fitzroy, and after Lionel’s boozing got out of hand, she took to leaving the boy there while she was working. Myrt helped her out a few times, too. That day, though, we was down to Arnprior for a funeral and Marie was in the hospital having a hysterectoday—”
Peter heard Myrtle shout, “Hysterectomy,” and covered his mouth with his hand.
Albert scowled at the screen door, saying, “Nosey Parker,” then returned his gaze to Peter. “So that day Maggie was strapped. This was in June—goddam—six years ago now. And here’s where the woman went wrong. She made Aaron responsible. Now don’t get me wrong, the boy ain’t that bad. Not all the way retarded. Just...slow. Can’t stay focused.”
From the kitchen Myrtle said, “Like someone else we know,” and Peter laughed out loud.
Albert made an angry face, but his eyes were shining. He said, “Remember what I told you about that woman?” To Myrtle he said, “We’re tryna have a conversation out here,” and scooped up another biscuit. He took a bite and said, “This’s the only reason I put up with her. Go ahead, have another.”
Peter did, saying, “I did some research before coming down here. I know Mrs. Dolan was institutionalized for more than a year.”
“That’s right. Royal Ottawa, lockdown wing. Aaron spent that year in the village with his aunt. Boy seemed happier’n a clam down there, too, pumping gas, delivering groceries on his bike.”
“I also read that Lionel died in an accident.”
“Ejit was an accident. Took two mean bastards with him and good riddance to the lot. The only smart thing Maggie ever done where Lionel was concerned—besides putting a knife in him—”
“Albert.”
This time the old man ignored his wife’s admonition and went on, lowering his voice a shade. “The only smart thing she done was take out a term policy on the man. Gave her a nice little nest egg when she got out. That plus the fund the church set up. Myrt helped out with that. Amazing, really, once word got out about the boy, donations rolling in from concerned Christians all over the world. Tallied up a few hundred thousand before they was done. Far as I know, she’s still living off that money.”
Though Peter was enjoying the old man’s yarn, he wanted to take a shot at meeting Margaret Dolan before it got too late in the day. Most of what Albert was telling him he’d already learned on his own. What he wanted to know now was how to find her.
He stood, reaching over to shake Albert’s hand, the old man looking surprised and a little disappointed.
“There’s a lot more,” Albert said.
“I’m sure there is,” Peter said, “and with your permission we’ll talk again. But right now I’d like to go see if she’ll talk to me.”
Albert nodded, standing now too. “Fair enough. But if it don’t work out and you’re of a mind, come on back and we’ll feed you supper. Myrt’s got a roast in the oven, there’s more’n enough.”
Peter thanked him again and headed for the steps, saying, “Thanks, Mrs. Muldoon,” as he passed the screen door. There was no reply.
At the foot of the steps, Albert pointed up the highway and said, “Road’s right there at the top of the hill. People always miss it ’cause they’re too busy watching to see what’s coming over the hill. Slow ’er right down and you can’t miss it. Hang left, then left again at the foot of the crossroad. The old Misner place used to be up there on the right, but she burned flat back in ’98. The Dolans’ve lived alone back there ever since. Hardly ever see Maggie anymore. The odd time at church or doing her groceries in town, but even then the woman keeps pretty much to herself. Never been the same since losing her boy.”
Peter believed he understood. He thanked the old farmer again and got in his car, waving as he pulled onto Route 22. At the top of the hill, he turned left onto a narrow dirt road that angled sharply upward at first, then sloped gently down until it ended at the T he’d seen on the map. He glanced to his right, at the jutting, overgrown remains of the house Albert said had burned down, then turned left toward the Dolan farm, a quarter mile to the north.
* * *
A neglected looking L-shaped barn, the first thing Peter saw, stood in isolation far back to the right of the
road, its sun-bleached boards roofed by rusted corrugations of tin. A broken line of trees blocked his view of the house, and it wasn’t until he’d angled past it into the yard that he saw the rest of the compound. To his immediate right stood a tall, barracks-like row of three buildings joined end to end, the first of them clearly a garage, its faded white doors latched shut, the other two long since boarded up. Then came the house itself, a smallish two-story wood-frame bearing little resemblance to the homey dwelling Peter had seen in the video. At a glance the place looked uninhabited, forgotten, the once lush flowerbeds overrun with weeds, the unmowed lawn scabbed with disease, the full-length porch and clapboard walls screaming for paint. It was hard to imagine a place could deteriorate so thoroughly in just a few years. It occurred to Peter that perhaps the remaining Dolans had simply pulled up stakes and moved on, their reclusive habits leaving their nearest neighbors none the wiser. There was no vehicle in the yard, no sign of life whatsoever.
Then Peter saw curtains in the dusty windows, and as he circled the turnaround, sheets fluttering in the breeze on a clothesline out back. He parked in front of the porch steps, slipped the boys’ photos out of the folder on the seat beside him and emerged into the dusty heat. He started up the steps to the screen door and heard a muffled shout from deep inside the house, then footfalls, distant and heavy, followed by a muted slam.
He approached the screen hesitantly, feeling like a trespasser now, fearful of a barnyard dog or a jealous boyfriend, thinking this had been a dumb and impulsive idea. He could feel the words he’d rehearsed turning to ash in his mouth.
He knocked twice and stood with his nose to the rusty screen, the sun at his back printing a rectangle of glare onto the cracked linoleum in there, casting the hallway beyond into a well of darkness.
Fresh footfalls now, scuffing toward him out of the shadow of the hall. Common etiquette bade him step back a few paces—he had his face pressed to the screen like a kid at a glass candy counter—but Peter held his ground, watching a ghostly mass resolve into a large woman, the details vague at first, sharpening as light dissolved shadow.
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